The throne room is cold, almost frigid, but Capitano feels nothing as he sinks to his knees before her. The iron parts of his garments scrap against the white marble floor. The clang of metal echoes around them, yet he is deaf to all but the steady rhythm of his own heartbeat, thundering in his ears.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he removes his helmet, letting it fall to the side. The heavy piece of armour clatters, forgotten, as his thick, black hair spills free, cascading down his back like an ink-dark river. The black fur cape slips from his broad shoulders, pooling around his knees. He doesn't care about the stinging cold; all his focus is on her, his princess, the only light in his shadowed world. He just wants to offer himself at her feet.

The moment is still, suspended, as he reaches for her, his movements almost hesitant, as if afraid she might recoil. His rough hand, usually steady in battle, trembles ever slightly as he lifts it, drawing her palm into his. He presses his cheek against it, his skin cold, hers warm. He closes his eyes for a moment, losing himself in the sensation.

“My princess…” His voice is a ragged whisper, frayed with the intensity of his longing. He knows he shouldn't; he knows the impropriety of his actions, but he is past caring. He is consumed by her, by the mere thought of her, and now, in her presence, he feels like a parched man before an endless sea.

There is nothing in this world or the next that he wouldn't give, no sacrifice too great, to see her smile, to hear her voice, to feel her hand upon his cheek like this.

She is everything⎯his moon, his sun, his very breath. She is the absolute centre of his existence.

He lives and dies by her word, each heartbeat an offering to her grace. His devotion isn't a matter of choice, not something he can govern; it's simply who he is, the very essence of his being.

“I am yours, Mia Principessa,” Capitano breathes. “Always.”

In her presence, he feels whole, as though every scar, every hardship, has led him here at her feet.